The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 151

My dress is richly figured, And the train Makes a pink and silver stain On the gravel, and the thrift Of the borders.

Just a plate of current fas.h.i.+on, Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.

Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whale-bone and brocade.

And I sink on a seat in the shade Of a lime-tree. For my pa.s.sion Wars against the stiff brocade.

The daffodils and squills Flutter in the breeze As they please.

And I weep; For the lime-tree is in blossom And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

And the plas.h.i.+ng of waterdrops In the marble fountain Comes down the garden-paths.

The dripping never stops.

Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding.

But she guesses he is near, And the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand upon her.

What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!

I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.

All the pink and silver crumpled upon the ground.

I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, And he would stumble after, Bewildered by my laughter.

I should see the sun flas.h.i.+ng from his sword-hilt and the buckles on his shoes.

I would choose To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, Till he caught me in the shade, And the b.u.t.tons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, Aching, melting, unafraid.

With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, And the plopping of the waterdrops, All about us in the open afternoon-- I am very like to swoon With the weight of this brocade, For the sun sifts through the shade.

Underneath the fallen blossom In my bosom, Is a letter I have hid.

It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.

"Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell Died in action Thursday se'nnight."

As I read it in the white, morning sunlight, The letters squirmed like snakes.

"Any answer, Madam?" said my footman.

"No," I told him.

"See that the messenger takes some refreshment.

No, no answer."

And I walked into the garden, Up and down the patterned paths, In my stiff, correct brocade.

The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun, Each one.

I stood upright too, Held rigid to the pattern By the stiffness of my gown.

Up and down I walked, Up and down.

In a month he would have been my husband.

In a month, here, underneath this lime, We would have broke the pattern; He for me, and I for him, He as Colonel, I as Lady, On this shady seat.

He had a whim That sunlight carried blessing.

And I answered, "It shall be as you have said."

Now he is dead.

In Summer and in Winter I shall walk Up and down The patterned garden-paths In my stiff, brocaded gown.

The squills and daffodils Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.

I shall go Up and down, In my gown.

Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.

And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace By each b.u.t.ton, hook, and lace.

For the man who should loose me is dead, Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, In a pattern called a war.

Christ! What are patterns for?

Amy Lowell [1874-1925]

DUST

When the white flame in us is gone, And we that lost the world's delight Stiffen in darkness, left alone To crumble in our separate night;

When your swift hair is quiet in death, And through the lips corruption thrust Has stilled the labor of my breath-- When we are dust, when we are dust!--

Not dead, not undesirous yet, Still sentient, still unsatisfied, We'll ride the air, and s.h.i.+ne, and flit, Around the places where we died,

And dance as dust before the sun, And light of foot, and unconfined, Hurry from road to road, and run About the errands of the wind.

And every mote, on earth or air, Will speed and gleam, down later days, And like a secret pilgrim fare By eager and invisible ways,

Nor ever rest, nor ever lie, Till, beyond thinking, out of view, One mote of all the dust that's I Shall meet one atom that was you.

Then in some garden hushed from wind, Warm in a sunset's afterglow, The lovers in the flowers will find A sweet and strange unquiet grow

Upon the peace; and, past desiring, So high a beauty in the air, And such a light, and such a quiring, And such a radiant ecstasy there,

They'll know not if it's fire, or dew, Or out of earth, or in the height, Singing, or flame, or scent, or hue, Or two that pa.s.s, in light, to light,

Out of the garden, higher, higher....

But in that instant they shall learn The shattering ecstasy of our fire, And the weak pa.s.sionless hearts will burn

And faint in that amazing glow, Until the darkness close above; And they will know--poor fools, they'll know!-- One moment, what it is to love.

Rupert Brooke [1887-1915]

BALLAD

The roses in my garden Were white in the noonday sun, But they were dyed with crimson Before the day was done.

All clad in golden armor, To fight the Saladin, He left me in my garden, To weep, to sing, and spin.

When fell the dewy twilight I heard the wicket grate, There came a ghost who s.h.i.+vered Beside my garden gate.

All clad in golden armor, But dabbled with red dew; He did not lift his vizor, And yet his face I knew.

And when he left my garden The roses all were red And dyed in a fresh crimson; Only my heart was dead.

The roses in my garden Were white in the noonday sun; But they were dyed with crimson Before the day was done.

Maurice Baring [1874-